


30 Days of USUK

by multipurposetoolguy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Astronaut AU, Astronaut Alfred, Character Study, Cowboy Kink, Date Night, Dialogue-Only, Drunk Character, Emotional Roller Coaster, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Alfred, Female Arthur, First Meetings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mission Control Arthur, Nyotalia, Smitten Fan Alfred, Snapshots, Songfic, Sortof, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Unhappy Ending, Vignette, Ziggy Stardust-esque Arthur, because Alfred's a nerd, carnival date, carnival rides and fair food, fem!usuk, god help me, much much angst in chapter 6, references to video games and pokemon, sleeping habits, stripper!alfred, tags to be added as each chapter goes up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multipurposetoolguy/pseuds/multipurposetoolguy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots, one for every day in the month of April, each of them based on/inspired by a different song from the 1980's. There will be a myriad of aus, themes, plots, and general usuk shenanigans that you know and love. It'll range from fluff to angst to humor and everything in between, so stick around and celebrate USUK all month with me!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Give Love a Bad Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred takes Arthur on a date to play lazer tag. It goes as well as expected.

Arthur was irritated.

 

This was not an unusual phenomenon, by any stretch of the word, in fact the opposite was very much true. Arthur was _usually_ irritated at one thing or another, in varying degrees and levels of composure. What really got Arthur's goose was the fact that he'd _agreed_ to go out and do something that he knew he would enjoy doing about as much as he'd enjoy pulling his pants down in front of the Queen and doing his very best rendition of the Mission Impossible theme.

 

Which is to say, he'd volunteered to be uncomfortable, mortified at even being there and at what he was wearing, _and_ doing something which made no sense at all. And for what?

 

For that damned dimpled, stretched out grin and the stupid, beautiful face it sat nestled in, that's what.

 

Arthur sighed, all elbows and red-knuckled fingers with his arms crossed, narrowing his eyes at a dubious rust-red stain on the edge of the counter top that Alfred was currently slamming a wrinkled square of paper down onto, just a step in front of him.

 

"One free match for two please! The coupon is from the Thrifty Reader, that crossword was _super_ easy." Alfred was scrunching his eyes up like he did when he thought he was being overly impressive, which sent Arthur's eyes rolling. Admittedly, one _did_ have to know quite a lot of Simpsons trivia to finish that particular puzzle, though apparently the city was prepared to hand out free lazer tag vouchers to anyone with a smartphone or access to google.

 

Still, it _was_ Alfred's turn to choose where they went for their bi-weekly Date Night Outing, and Arthur could only be irritated at himself for not thinking to put "instances where one or both parties shall be heavily armed with plastic weapons" on the list of veto'd options.

 

So really Arthur only had himself to blame for the fact that he was passively allowing Alfred to fasten the clips of his neon pink vest across his shoulders, watching in barely disguised disgust as Alfred poked and prodded at the lights embedded in his own electric blue one, giggling to himself.

 

Heaven help his taste in men.

 

"I don't understand why if we _must_ do this, we can't at least be on the same team." He groused, picking up his battered 'weapon' like it was a dirty tea-towel.

 

"You heard the man Artie, there was exactly one space open on each team in the next match, and I didn't want to wait a whole hour for the next one." Alfred explained patiently, checking the specs on his own gun as if any of the buttons or toggles were functional.

 

"More like 'couldn't physically stay still for that long'," Arthur mumbled, poking Alfred's backside lightly with his gun as they filed out of the 'armoury' and into the dark, paint splattered neon jungle-gym that was the arena, some monotonous techno song pumping far too loudly through the speakers above.

 

Alfred just laughed, shouting a quick "Get your game face on babe!" over his shoulder before darting off into the tacky 80's club scene which seemed to have vomited on every surface in every direction. Now Arthur was alone in this garish, headache-inducing hellscape without so much as his gorgeous yet very guilty boyfriend to hear him complain about it.

 

Typical.

 

Raising his gun to a sort of half alert position he decided to wander around a bit and see if he couldn't find a relatively clean crate to hide behind until the hour was up, and they could go eat pasta and breadsticks at Georgio's like normal people on a date.

 

He supposed he _could_ go out and hunt him down; it wasn't often that Arthur was coerced into doing something he'd rather not and then been handed a weapon (of sorts) and the opportunity to shoot the very person who'd coerced him in the first place. No, he wouldn't want to give Alfred the idea that he _enjoyed_ this, setting himself up for future dates just like this stale-aired sticky-floored neon one. He also actually wanted to _keep_ his boyfriend, thank you very much, and for some reason unknown to him this kind of thing made Alfred happy.

 

 _So move about, shoot the gun, climb on a box like a monkey and get some good snogging out of it later,_ Arthur thought to himself, flicking up a two-fingered salute as some sneering teenager in a blue vest ran past and shot his vest, making it light up and emit a dreadful electronic sound denouncing he'd been 'hit'. Grumbling to himself he meandered about the arena, unphased by all the zapping and hollering and thumping going on around him. Finally he found a large slatted box resting against a wall at an angle, providing a nice little nest where he could sit unnoticed and check his twitter or finally reply to some emails he'd been procrastinating on answering. Maybe he'd tag Francis in pictures of frogs on Facebook, the possibilities were endless and all of them preferable to actually _participating_ in bloody _lazer tag_. With a long and bitter sigh to no one but himself he crouched down and crawled inside, content to let Alfred tire himself out playing with the other boys until he returned to him happy, lazy, and affectionate, just like the human puppy dog that he was.

 

\--------------

 

Arthur was halfway through a riveting email to his editor about punctuation changes in the epilogue of chapter four of his latest short story when heavy footsteps pounded right up to the entrance to his foxhole, beat up red converse slapping the rubber floor and stopping there.

 

Arthur knew those shoes from far too many instances of removing them from wherever in the house they'd been strewn and putting them in the closet by the door _where they belonged._

 

"Alfred?" He crawled out from his hiding place, his gun forgotten, as Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin, _his_ gun up and aimed for the kill.

 

" _Jesus_ babe, don't do that! Where'd you come from?"

 

Before he could answer with no small degree of sarcasm that he was taking cover like a true soldier of war Alfred tugged him sharply around the corner, the both of them tucked chest to chest between the wall and an unassuming pillar.

 

At Arthur's deadpan look from under his monumentous brows, Alfred said hastily, "We had bogies comin' up on our tail, four o'clock! I took evasive maneuvers."

 

"You're aware that that thing is plastic, aren't you darling? And that despite the 'atmosphere' we _aren't_ actually in Vietnam?" Arthur sent a pointed look down to the weapon dangling at Alfred's side.

 

"Hey, just 'cause it don't look like a bumblebee don't mean it don't sting," Alfred drawled, sending Arthur's head backwards and eyes up through the ceiling, beseeching whatever god had dealt him such a fate.

 

"Oh my _god,_ Alfred, I've told you before that is _not_ something people actually say-" Alfred cut him off with a sharp hiss, his head cocked defensively and his eyes stern.

 

"Okay, they're gone. I thought for sure they'd hear your eyes rolling and come thundering in for the sting. I've got some good guys, my guys."

 

"We're not on the same team, by all rights you should be 'out for the sting'." Arthur said, slipping his hands into the pockets of Alfred's sweatshirt around the front panel of his vest, almost by muscle memory at being so flush together.

 

Alfred looped the arm that wasn't holding his weapon around Arthur's shoulders and rubbed a thumb up and down the nape of his neck, in the precise way he knew Arthur loved. "What, and let them shoot my best girl? Come on, I need you writing me love letters and watching the skies for my unit to fly back home!" He puffed up his chest and raised his gun up, wiggling it around boastfully before using it to give a stern salute. 

 

Arthur, true to form, rolled his eyes, but played along with a fluttered hand to his forehead and his most posh accent lilting out, "Oh, when ever will my husband return from the war?"

 

Their chuckling petered out, and they were left breathing the same hot air between them and not saying a word. Alfred was the one to move first, he always was, and he bent his head just enough for their noses to brush, a grin creeping across his flushed face. Arthur took his queue to start the snogging early and tilted his own head up, eating up Alfred's cheeky grin with a hunger for seconds. Their lips slid together, Alfred biting down ever so slightly in Arthur's bottom lip in that way that he knew drove him absolutely _mad,_ and Arthur reached up to cup Alfred's face in both hands when-

 

His vest lights up, an awful electronic noise, harsh red LED light spilling over him like a wound.

 

Where just a moment ago he'd been flush against Alfred's chest he was now bereft of the hot closeness of it, his arms frozen in the air cupping not Alfred's jaw but empty air, watching in slack-jawed disbelief as his gorgeous, _very_ guilty, son-of-a-bitch of a boyfriend sauntered backwards away from him, with a shrug and a wink and an "All's fair in love and war, sweetheart!" that was far too chipper, before he turned tail and jogged off into the battlefield to the last beats of the awful techno music.

 

Arthur's hands dropped to his sides as the next song started to play, loud and proud, and he punched a whole straight through a nearby cardboard barracks.

 

_"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, darlin' you give love a bad name..."_

 

Oh, heaven help his taste in men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's day one! I'm going to try very hard to write and post one every day, so keep checking this for updates and stay tuned! And as always, I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Pour Some Sugar On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis takes (read: drags) Arthur to a strip club and it turns out somebody's got a sweet tooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically 2002 words of unapologetic cowboy kink. How did it ever get to cowboy kink...
> 
> WARNING for stripper moves, semi-nakedness, and references to erections. You have been warned. 
> 
> also for reference:  
> cul serré -- tight ass  
> venir Arthur -- come on Arthur

They’ve only been there for 15 minutes and already Arthur despises the place. He'd felt his lips curl in disgust almost of their own volition at the sight of the obnoxious neon lettering of the sign outside, true, but at least then he could hold onto the slim hope that Francis would spontaneously stop being a horrible, horrible human being and not make him actually go inside. But, of course, the fates would not smile upon him (Arthur could hardly be surprised), which was why he found himself sitting gingerly on a tacky stool at a tacky bar sipping on a quite frankly tacky Long Island iced tea in the tackiest strip club he’s ever reluctantly step foot in.

 

Francis was up by the stage having the time of his life, because of course he was, a glass of expensive champagne in one hand and a fistful of his own hair in the other, a crisp one dollar bill held teasingly between his teeth. _Disgusting._ The young man gyrating all over said stage -yes, young _man,_ to which Francis replied when asked about it, “I don’t know, you’re gay and it’s Tuesday and I’m in the mood to see some beautiful people?”- bent and took the bill into his own mouth, giving Francis a sultry smirk that would make a nun faint. Honestly, did _anyone_ here know how much _bacteria_ is lurking on that piece of paper?

 

Arthur sniffed into his drink and turned away from the stage. If he wanted to go to a strip club he bloody well _would,_ but they really weren’t his cup of tea, as it were. He preferred mulling about in everyday public places full of constant self-doubt and nervousness at possible romantic encounters like all the other normal single people he knew, and it wasn’t like he was going to walk out of a place like this with an emotional commitment, anyway. He’d come here with the intent to placate Francis and get some free drinks out of it, and that was all she wrote. He’d even be able to catch the last half of Bake Off if he convinced them to leave early enough.

 

Ah, the dreaded ‘if’.

 

Francis swiveled in his chair to grin back at him, like a great fat cat with a stomach full of dead bird or something equally dreadful, and called to him. “Ey, cul serré! Come have a little fun why don’t you? I don’t think you will find anything at the bottom of that drink besides a headache and more self-loathing than usual.” It was all shouted over the thumping lyrics to some Lady GaGa song he couldn’t be arsed to remember the name of, and it only served to irritate him further.

 

He raised his drink and spat back faux-sweetly, “Shove it straight up your ass, dearest.” Francis actually had the gall to _pout,_ setting his glass down smoothly into the waiting hand of some young thing hustled up to the stage with him and getting up to do nothing good, Arthur was sure.

 

“Venir Arthur, just _one_ delectably hung man’s package dancing in your face, hmm? Pour moi?” He’d sidled up to him and was attempting to tuck down Arthur’s many stubborn cowlicks to no avail, and Arthur batted his hands away.

 

“You will find the Queen’s English somewhere in that bohemian mouth of yours or you’ll shut it, frog.” Arthur tossed back without missing a beat, before continuing, “I think I’ll be able to manage through the rest of my poor little existence without _that,_ I’m fairly certain.” Honestly, he was missing Shortbread Week for this?

 

Francis was about to resort to whining, Arthur could tell by the way the Frenchman scrunched his nose up like he were smelling something awful, when they were interrupted by an announcement over the house speakers.

 

“Allllllright people of the night, I have the distinct pleasure of introducing our next dancer for you tonight! He’s 6 feet of tan, blonde, down-home country boy, Al of Green Gay-bles and just as feisty, give it up for Alfred!” The voice was drowned out by a swell of hoots and hollers from around the club, this _Alfred_ clearly being a favorite here at this particular awful establishment. Francis twittered in his seat, recognizing the name and latching onto Arthur’s arm like a pretentiously dressed leech to drag him to a couple of seats in by the stage, front and center.

 

Arthur dug his heels into the atrocious carpet beneath them but it was too late, and Francis could always find the strength of ten men within him when the situation involved Arthur’s mortification and, ironically, said men. Francis plunked them both down into their seats as the steady shred of a guitar filled the air around them, the lights cutting out to reveal flashing beams of red, white, and blue where the back of the stage walkway met the wall. Lyrics warbled about overhead, and at the start of a dramatic drum beat, the entire length of the stage lit up in matching LED strips, casting the catwalk and of course, the stripper pole, in a red-hot glow.

 

A quick-fingered guitar riff cut in, and at that moment a body parted the curtains, head tipped low as he sauntered out onto the catwalk in time to the beat. Arthur wanted to lean back in his chair and scoff, looking anywhere but at the remarkable pillar of inanity that willingly called himself _Al of Green Gay-bles, for fuck’s sake,_ but, irritatingly, he found himself watching.... Closely.

 

The man -Alfred, Arthur irritably recalled- was dressed in tight, faded blue jeans, tattered and shredded at the knees, with a stark white t-shirt hugging him tightly across his toned and rippling chest. He was pressing a stetson down low on his head, face turned down with just a hint of a boyish grin peeking out for all to see. He dropped to his knees and was writhing tamely in time with the smashing drums, keeping a firm hold in his hat until he’d wiggled about a bit more and the lyrics picked up. At the drop of the first line he kicked his chin up, giving a dazzlingly toothy and _cheeky_ grin to his rapt audience, removing the hat to thrust into it ridiculously (ridiculous and _kind of hot,_ his traitorous mind and maybe a bit further down south supplied) before returning it to rest on his mess of wheat-yellow hair.

 

He made his rounds around the stage, giving everyone a piece, and when it got to be Arthur’s ‘turn’ he dropped to his knees and unbuttoned his jeans in one fluid motion, pulling up the _very_ thin straps of, christ, of a bright red thong, winking brazenly at him before standing back up and shucking out of the pants all in time with the primal beat of the song.

 

Francis whistled and shouted along with the other patrons watching, but Arthur couldn't make a sound as he was downright _seduced_ by the walking wet dream in front of him. Leave it to Francis to find a Shania Twain CD under your bed _one time_ in high school and hold your cowboy kink over you for the rest of your life. He could practically see the sprig of wheat hanging from between his wet lips and hear the he southern drawl as he says something terribly unimportant about cows or a tool shed, lord help him.

 

He could feel himself starting to sweat.

 

Alfred tugged the hem of his shirt up to reveal his abs, fist balled tight in the fabric as he stretched it ever so teasingly before reaching up and _biting_ the hem between his teeth, rubbing both hands up and down his already greased and glistening chest. Alfred’s brows knitted together and his eyes fell closed as he brushed across a nipple and-

 

_Bollocks._

 

Arthur was well and truly gone, sailing straight past his inhibitions and waving as they went by. Might as well enjoy this while it lasted and beat the ever loving shit out of Francis later, he decided, settling back with a shaky breath and as much of a smile as he could muster when Alfred locked eyes with him _again._ At the drop of the chorus Alfred ripped the shirt off as if it were made of tissue paper, and Arthur sincerely hoped that his pants were tight enough to keep the ol’ royal guard in place.

 

Alfred was grinning now, face-splitting and confident and bracketed by dimples that you could drain the great lakes into. His skin glowed red-hot and sweaty under the lighting, as if the patrons of this unremarkable strip club had just caught him taking his shirt off after a long day of cattle wrangling under the simmering Georgia sun, and Arthur suddenly had the urge to change into some skimpy overall cut-offs and shit-kicking boots. It was filthy and suggestive and _so wrong,_ but if Arthur could dictate what got his soldier up and armed his life would have played out very differently.  

 

The chorus hit again, barely discernible over the increasing mania Alfred’s hips were causing, and at the spirited crooning of _‘pour some sugar on me,’_ Alfred reached just behind the pole he’d just had his legs wrapped around and produced a plastic bottle full of not water, but _white glitter._ He slid to his knees again -and god if that didn’t look like the place he liked to be most, Arthur’s imagination _really_ wasn’t doing him any favors tonight- and upended the bottle all over his naked chest and thighs. The glitter stuck to him like honey to a biscuit (he was going to need to veg out on something overwhelmingly English later to come down from this, he knew, probably end up binging the rest of Bake Off just to get his All American stiffy to go away), and it caught every bit of light thrown his way, throwing stars into his lusty azure eyes.

 

Bills of all denominations were falling about his writhing, sparkling form like confetti now, some of Arthur’s, both he and Francis were surprised to find. The song faded out to thundering applause and shouts, Alfred laying there panting and grinning with eyes closed like he’d just gotten some, well, _sugar._ It was about on par with how Arthur was doing, feeling like he’d just had his own little roll in the hay himself, Francis staring at him in unbridled and delighted surprise. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off Alfred, naturally, as his sweaty stomach fell up and down rhythmically with his breathing.

 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized that Alfred had opened his eyes and was in fact _staring_ at him as he collected his generous offerings, and he didn’t have the strength left to question himself when he stuck out a shaky hand, a hundred dollar bill clutched in his clammy fingers.

 

Alfred tucked a wad of bills into the strap of his g-string and crawled until he was right in front of Arthur, deftly taking the bill from his hand and tucking it behind Arthur’s ear, leaning in to snatch it with his teeth. Before he pulled away he whispered huskily in Arthur’s ear, crackling energy and a hopeful uncertainty that was not visible during the show evident in his voice.

 

“Back room, Suite D, meet me in 10?”

 

Arthur shuddered at the hot breath against his ear and locked eyes with Alfred as he reared back on his haunches, collecting bills from the audience and smiling at them in turn. He cleared his throat and nodded, with a bit more confidence, and stood, straightening his shirt as calmly as he could manage.

 

He leveled a blasé look down at Francis, who was scrutinizing him like something particularly exciting under a microscope lens.

  
“Right, then. Don’t wait up.” With that, and to a chorus of French swears and spluttering, he turned on his heel and made his way towards sweet, Suite D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was supposed to be posted on the 2nd and it is technically the 4th, but, hey. This is very new to me and I'm trying, dang it! I'm allowed to cheat a little. And I'll be back on track soon! Comment maybe?


	3. Ziggy Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur front-lines Alfred's favorite band, and this time Alfred is actually going to _speak_ to him, damn it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still falling behind but hey, at least I'm getting them out! 
> 
> Differing from the first two, this one doesn't actually feature the song I picked, it's more based around the vibe of the song and how it makes me feel when I hear it. Which is very different from what I had originally planned for this chapter, which was something in the vein of Alfred swooning over Arthur's punk rock "god-given ass". But, that's not what came out when I sat down to write this, and I hope you enjoy what came out instead! 
> 
> Also I cheated a little bit, seeing as how Ziggy Stardust was released in 1972 and therefor isn't an 80's song. BUT, in my defense, was I supposed to write this thing WITHOUT as much Bowie as I could cram in?? I didn't think so!! There will be more Bowie songs from the appropriate era, don't fret, but the 70's were a VERY strong time for my spaceman, you gotta admit.
> 
> Arthur's band name and the lyrics/song titles mentioned were all made up by me, so I hope they don't sound lame haha!
> 
>  
> 
> _But boy, could he play guitar..._

Standing outside the modest bar-turned-temporary-venue a generous and overly-cautious three hours early, patting down his pockets, Alfred made a mental list. 

 

Ticket? Check.

 

First Edition hand made tour shirt with one-of-a-kind signature above the logo? Check.

 

Trusty bomber jacket that he’s worn to every single show before now, allowing for both maximum comfort and maximum recognizabiliy to the band? Check (fingers crossed!).

 

At  _ least  _ six different sharpies and pens in case of an emergency autograph situation? Check check check check check and check!

 

Three out of four pockets full of extra snacks so his energy wouldn’t get low during crucial grooving opportunities? Triple-check. 

 

And lastly… 

 

His demo CD.

 

Okay, yeah, bringing a demo with your own amateur music on it to a concert to give to YOUR IDOL is basically the lamest thing you can do while at a rock concert, Alfred knows this.  _ But, _ Hands at Highgate  _ was  _ on the market for a new back-up guitarist, and while he wouldn’t say he was  _ quite  _ on their level of musical mastery he did know that he could pluck a string or two and bring down more than just his second cousin’s christening after party. 

 

He took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to clear away his nerves and the pre-show jitters, right on schedule. He pushed through the swinging doors into the dim interior of the bar, tucking into a corner booth and smoothly ordering himself a coke and the biggest burger they had. He flashed the waiter a grin in thanks and was left fingering the thin CD case in his pocket absently, his nerves trickling back. 

 

The only thing left to do, was wait.

 

\--------------

 

Five minutes to showtime and the room was buzzing. Kids in their teens trying to feel cultured in the music scene without the money to be able to afford big name tours, die-hard fans like himself who follow the band to every bar and street corner they’ve ever set down a kit at, and oblivious patrons of the bar just trying to figure out what was going on. Alfred was flush against the stage and leaning on a floor speaker, dead center, what he waited three hours for (people only really started wandering in about 45 minutes ago, but in Alfred’s book it was better to be safe and ridiculously early than sorry). 

 

He was drumming his fingers rhythmically against the stage floor, which sat about waist-high for Alfred, and was quietly gnawing on a thumbnail when the lights dimmed and movement behind the modest curtains made them ruffle. All sound hushed to a stop and then immediately burst into excited whoops and calls, and Alfred bounced on the balls of his feet with sudden intake of breath as a figure parted the sea of tangerine silk. 

 

He was short, shorter than Alfred, and his hair was the color of parchment when it fades and turns yellow in the sun. It was messy, like he couldn’t be bothered to comb it even before literally stepping out into a spotlight, and it was unbelievably endearing. He didn’t dress like a rock star, the front man, which was appropriate given that Hands at Highgate were not actually a rock band, by most standards. Their style was all strange imagery and lyrical poetry laid over upbeat and out-there beat patterns, with a fair number of songs that were slow and drawn out, with a vulnerable sadness. Those ones always reminded Alfred of the sea on a cold day, and he had always wondered if it was the same for Arthur, as well.

 

Arthur of course being Arthur Kirkland, lead singer-slash-mandolin player of Alfred’s all time favorite group, standing  _ right  _ in front of him and giving a stiff but shy wave-and-hello to the audience. He’d never had the guts to actually  _ speak  _ to Arthur before, at the previous couple of shows (okay 17, but who’s counting?) that he’d gone to. He could never string together any combination of words that would  _ mean  _ something, and with precious few opportunities to meet your creative driving force, Alfred hated the thought that he’d say something generic and plain like ‘great show’ or ‘I have all your CDs’, and be just another face in the crowd to his hero.

 

So, until now, he’d said nothing at all. He was hoping that bringing his CD along would be like a contract with himself, a solid and tangible reason to go up to him and try and  _ matter.  _

 

Any emotional tide swelling between his temples was quelled for the moment, however, as Arthur’s London accent met the microphone and he was introducing the band. 

 

“Hello lovelies, ah, thank you all for coming out tonight and if you all don’t mind, I think we’re going to start off with a song called ‘Ship Tipping’” To a chorus of cheers and gentle applause Arthur stepped away from the mic to pick up his instrument, a mandolin painted phonebox red with gold embellishments, and as one the small three-piece dove into a chipper song about subway pirates sailing throughout the Queen’s city. It was a favorite of Alfred’s, and it was an excellent choice to set the mood for the show. 

 

Arthur’s impression of a posh naval officer aboard a subway car sent Alfred into a fit of giggles, like it always did; Arthur’s stage presence truly was a strange and magnificent force to witness live. 

 

When a particularly theatrical stomp of his foot sent his water bottle tumbling, Alfred’s hand flicked out lightning fast and caught it before it spilled,  Arthur meeting his eyes quite suddenly and giving him a genuine smile and a quick “Cheers, mate,” away from the mic, just for him. 

 

Needless to say, the next few songs passed by in a bit of a heart-fluttery blushing-school-boy blur, which was devastatingly and  _ wonderfully  _ full of prolonged eye-contact. 

 

\--------------

 

By the time Arthur was back at the mic and warning them all of a bit of a change of pace, Alfred had danced, swayed his arms to the beat, met two very nice college students to his left by accidentally elbowing one of them in the nose ( _ gently,  _ which made Arthur splutter out a laugh from under his scrunched up brow), and he’d depleted his snack stash, leaving him sated, loose, and vulnerable when Arthur crooned out the first few lines of a slower song called ‘Ghosts’.

 

Alfred hadn’t seen this one coming, they hadn’t ever had it on their setlist before, and in that moment what he wanted to say to Arthur when he finally -properly- met him went along the lines of ‘springing a sad song on a guy all unexpected like that? NOT cool.’  

 

And it was true, ‘Ghosts’  _ was  _ a sad song, probably the only piece of music that Alfred could describe as having the ability to ‘act like a shrink and get up inside his head’. It wasn’t a surprise coming from a band named after a cemetery, a song about things coming back to haunt you, but it was unsettling having an emotional screwdriver wrenched between his ribs when he was shoulder to shoulder with dozens of strangers in a dimly lit bar. 

 

“Friends come and lovers go, winter blows I know, I know, but did you even notice?” Alfred’s breath twisted painfully in his throat and he was frozen, couldn’t move as the sticky floors and the rickety stage fell away from him.

 

_ He’d missed the bus and come home late that day. The sun was setting and not warm enough to take his breath from the air when he came home to his mother crying in the kitchen.  _

 

_ “Ma, what happened? What’s wrong?” His mother’s face like a broken mirror, tears falling into a pot on the stove that had long since gone cold.  _

 

_ “Wrong, wrong, wrong, he didn’t even say goodbye-” She was choking on anger dressed like a wound.  _

 

_ “Ma? Who-” _

 

_ “Your father left, Alfred. He’s gone.” _

 

“You left and when you turn around where do I go? Sun don’t shine through fogged up ice and baby, you can’t see me. Baby, can’t you see me?”

 

_ Their first Christmas without him, Alfred punched a hole in the wall by the stairs.  _

 

_ His mother had taken up two extra jobs and they could barely put food on the table. When she handed him his gift, a second hand record player with the paint chipping off and cried, saying she was sorry there wasn’t more, Alfred couldn’t take it.  _

 

_ “I don’t need gifts, Ma, I don’t need anything. We don’t need  _ him _ ” He hugged his mother while she cried and gave her a new pair of earrings he’d lifted from the corner store, and hugged her when she cried even more because he knew that she knew.  _

 

_ “He’s a son of a bitch Ma, he didn’t deserve you.”  _

 

_ How could you leave her? _

 

_ “He better never set foot in this house if I’m anywhere near it.” _

 

_ Why can’t you just come back? Who needed you more than we did? _

 

_ “He’s dead to me, I never wanna see him again.”  _

 

_ I loved you. _

 

The song came to a close but Alfred didn’t see it. He could only stay strong for so long, and when he pushed his glasses up his face to scrub at his eyes and caught Arthur looking right at him, singing  _ only  _ to him _ ,  _ he couldn’t take it. 

 

He spent the last two songs and the encore in a stall in the bathroom, sweaty and shaking and staring at the CD clutched in his hands. 

 

\--------------

 

He left the stall some time later with red eyes and a deep breath in his lungs, finding the crowd had mostly thinned out and a scattered few were tucked close to Arthur where he was sitting on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. 

 

A slow exhale.  _ Alright Al, now or never _ .

 

Before his brain could take a moment a contemplate the merits of ‘never’, his feet had marched him in a steady bee-line to the stage. When he got closer Arthur’s eyes flashed to his and locked, for a long moment fraught with meaning that Alfred was too emotionally compromised for the evening to puzzle at, before he gently but firmly saw the stragglers on their way. Just the two of them, up against the stage, and Alfred’s tongue was in his throat. 

 

Arthur must have noticed, for he spoke first. “I noticed you pop out before the end, I do hope I didn’t do too bad a job on the high notes there.” His tone was nonchalant, teasing, but he met Alfred’s eyes and held them with genuine concern.

 

“Oh- not at all! It was great-  _ you  _ were great, I just- that song kinda hits me hard, I guess.” Understatement of the year, but Arthur didn’t need his life story in the first five words he said to the guy. “I’ve never seen you play it live before. I’ve been to quite a few shows so it was… surprising, let’s say.” He chuckled lamely and hoped that Arthur wasn’t already pegging him as ‘generic emotional fan #12’ in his head.

 

“I know, I’ve seen you around.” A smirk, softening into a more bashful smile. “And I know what you mean, about that song. Tends to put a damper on the crowd, but it just… needed to come out, for once, I suppose.” He gave Alfred a break from the (frankly intense) eye contact and noticed the CD in his hands.

 

“Do you want me to sign that?” He gestured to it with his can of ginger ale. 

 

“Huh? What- Oh! Oh ah, no, thank you but this is- ah, this is actually… my music.” He scratched at the back of his head in a nervous habit, holding out the CD before he could change his mind and snap it in two. “I know, I’m being ‘that guy’ right now, and I understand if you get like a hundred of these a day, but I know you’re looking for a guitarist and well, yeah, here.” 

 

Arthur takes the CD and quirks Alfred a strange grin as he does. “So you play, then, do you...?” 

 

“Since I was about fourteen, yeah. And uh, it’s Alfred, my name is Alfred.” _ So smooth... _

 

“What kind of stuff do you play?”

 

“Awesome stuff, my mom says I’m ‘David Bowie if he’d just eat a little bit more’, which, y’know, what do I do with that-” 

 

Arthur gave him a deadpan look.

 

“Oh, um, I mean, stuff like you. I play stuff like, well, like your stuff.” Arthur didn’t reply, just took him in for a long moment, before finally slipping the CD into the inside pocket of his mustard colored duster. Alfred sagged in a relief that he didn’t know he could  _ feel.  _

 

“Tell you what,” Arthur started, leveling him with a small smile and a scrutinizing gaze through slightly squinted eyes, “Give me your number, and I’ll let you know what I think of it, yeah?” 

 

Arthur was patting down his pockets for something to write with and Alfred dove into his own pockets, producing a handful of brightly colored markers from his emergency stash.  _ See, it  _ was  _ a good idea! Suck it, Ivan.  _

 

Arthur breathed out a laugh and shook his head, taking an electric blue purple one from the lot and pulling the cap off with his teeth, poised above the inside of his right palm, waiting. 

 

Alfred snapped back into focus and, after dropping two markers in fumbling them back into his pocket, dictated his cell number for Arthur to write down. 

 

On his  _ hand,  _ Arthur freaking Kirkland’s actual mandolin strummin’ mic holdin’  _ hand!  _

 

Finished, Arthur gave the marker back and stood, so that they were face to face. He reached out and gripped Alfred’s arm lightly, gently, and said. “I’ll give you a call, alright? And hey,” They locked eyes again, and Alfred realized at that moment that he’d never had a word for what color they were. 

 

“Thanks for coming, Alfred.” 

 

Needless to say, Alfred went home that night without his CD and with a growing excitement for the future, nestled like a ship among the waves between his temples. 

 

\--------------

 

About a week later, when his phone rang and Arthur freaking Kirkland was on the other end offering him a chance to audition for the open spot in the band, Alfred Ferdinand Jones honest-to-goodness pissed his pants.

  
His roommate Kiku filmed the whole thing on his iPhone, and texts it to him when he’s feeling particularly sadistic. 


	4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia and Rose go on a date at the Carnival down on the pier and, well, have some fun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew I had to do this song, and I was itching to do some fem!usuk sweetness, and carnival date is like in my top three all time favorite tropes, so this one ticks a lot of boxes for me. Like last chapter this one doesn't feature the song explicitly but embodies the vibe of it, and is based in its aesthetic, at least is it occurs to me, if that makes sense. 
> 
> warnings for extreme tooth rotting fluff, giant stuffed animals, and star wars references
> 
> Enjoy!

“Oh my  _ god _ Rosie, they have ski-ball! Pick out a prize babe and it’s yours, we  _ have  _ to play!” 

 

Rose tried not to roll her eyes, she really did, but it was a bit difficult when your girlfriend dragging you by the hand down a rickety pier towards a horrorshow of equally rickety carnival rides felt like someone dragging you down to the chopping block. 

 

“Does there  _ really  _ need to be this many junkfood stands in one place? Honestly, just one salad bar would go a long way.” Amelia had thankfully stopped running and subsequently yanking her along like a ragdoll, so that they were strolling hand in hand into the churning sea of fluorescent lights and nausea-inducing spinny rides that was annual Peirside Carnival. 

 

Amelia swung their hands between them animatedly and scoffed. “Have you ever tried to eat a salad on the tilt-o-whirl? Disaster. Everything has to be on a stick here, it’s for practicality!” 

 

Rose strongly doubted the need to be able to double-fist a corn dog and cotton candy while simultaneously riding a roller coaster, and she’d staunchly deny the desire for anyone to actually  _ want  _ to do that if she hadn’t seen first hand her girlfriend doing that exact ludicrous thing some time before. 

 

They dodged a gaggle of screaming children running past as they approached the ski-ball tent, every inch of available wall space choked with stuffed animals of increasingly garish shapes and colors. Amelia turned to her with a look of stoney determination, and Rose had to suppress the urge to grab at her cheeks and twist her face back to normal. 

 

“Alright babe, just point out which one you want and you’ll have it.” Good lord, she really did have her game face on. 

 

“I don’t really know what I’d  _ do  _ with any of these, Amelia-”

 

“The biggest one up there, you got it.” With a squeeze to her hand and a confident two-fingered salute Amelia turned the full force of her competitive energy on the poor game operator, slamming down a twenty dollar bill on the counter with a theatrically rugged  request for “As many balls as it takes.” 

 

Rose groaned, also a bit theatrically, before patting Amelia on the shoulder and saying, with the patience of a saint, “I’ll go get us a treat then, shall I?” 

 

She wandered over the the nearest vendor selling something that  _ wouldn’t  _ make her feel like she were actively consuming garbage, which turned out to be a snowcone stand not far from the ski-ball booth. The crashing waves beneath her feet sounded louder here, away from the trilling music of nearby attractions, and she rubbed at her temples, feeling a headache start to take root. Amelia dragged her here every year, and Rose always dreaded it. The lights and sounds and smells, all added onto the vertigo from dubious fair rides, plus the churning of the sea around them never failed to overload her senses, leaving her anxious and irritable and in some degree of pain. If she could just stick through it for a few measly hours they could pack it in and go home; Amelia would be satisfied with her loud rides and greasy food and Rose could lay back in her room with some Etta James records and a cup of tea and  _ relax.  _

 

By the time she found her way back to Amelia, one lemon and one bubblegum cotton candy strawberry twist snowcone in hand, she nearly dropped them in shock. 

 

There, leaning on an enormous stuffed rabbit as tall as she was and  _ smirking,  _ was Amelia. 

 

Rose gaped. “You didn’t.”

 

Amelia inspected her brightly painted nails, the absolute picture of cool. “Oh, but I did.” 

 

True to her word, Amelia seemed to have won the largest bloody prize ski-ball had to offer, and truly it was colossal. It was mint green and at  _ least  _ four feet tall, huge ears flopping over its face with big, sparkling eyes painted on. It was absolutely ridiculous, inconveniently large, and subjectively useless, but it was also incredibly cute, both in face and in gesture on Amelia’s part. 

 

Rose handed the snowcones to Amelia wordlessly (who let out a pleased little ‘ooh!’ at the flavor Rose had picked out for her) and crouched in front of the massive plush. She placed and hand on either side of its soft, fluffy cheeks, and felt a smile twisting through her pensive glare. It really was a cute little thing.

 

“So… Do you like it?” Amelia was biting her bottom lip, hands clasped behind her head so she wouldn’t fidget. “There was a giant pink squirrel too, I can have them switch them out if you-”

 

Rose wrapped her arms around the rabbit and hugged it tight to mask her grin. “It’s darling, love. You’re carrying it though.”

 

“Pssh, not a problem. Have you seen these guns?” She flexed her arm muscles through her crop top, fully aware that Rose in fact  _ had  _ seen her ‘guns’, many times. She couldn’t help but laugh as Amelia hefted the bunny high above her head, grunting playfully, before facing her with a shadowed grin and asking, “Where to next?”

 

\--------------

 

‘Next’ had ended up being the oversized shoebox covered in cheap fake spiderwebs that called itself the House of Horrors, which Rose had suggested if only for a few minutes in a dark, relatively quiet place, and an excuse to make fun of whatever this ramshackle nightmare could pull out to try and scare them. 

 

Amelia, of course, had raised her wibbly chin high and proclaimed that it would be a ‘total snooze fest’, and that they should hold hands so that Rose didn’t get scared. She just rolled her eyes and laced their fingers together, giving her a deadpan “Of course, dear.”

 

In a turn of events which had surprised absolutely no one, a discount Halloween mask dangling on a string in front of them suddenly made Amelia’s wavering chant of “I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay I’m fine I’m okay” abruptly change tune, turning into “I’m not okay I am NOT OKAY I’M NOT-”, resulting in Amelia lunging behind Rose for safety and yanking the two of them down into a jumbled pile of limbs right in front of a plastic headstone that read ‘Dearly Decapitated’. Upon reading that Amelia nearly had a conniption, and the both of them were escorted out of the attraction by a baffled security guard.

 

Now, the pair were stood in front of the looming bars of the ferris wheel, Amelia with her hands clasped together as if in prayer. 

 

“Pleeeeaaase Rosie? We’ll be safely buckled in, there’s no way for me to knock us down up there!”

 

Rose was holding the rabbit’s back to her chest and glaring at her over the top of its head at her, eyes narrowed. “You could knock us off and  _ out,  _ and then where would we be? Our bodies cast out to see with all the other poor souls who’ve probably died awful deaths at the hands of poorly assembled carnival equipment.”

 

Amelia shuddered and gave a suspicious glance down towards the water. “Is that- do they really do that?” 

 

Rose sighed heavily through her nose and let her head fall back, eyes skyward. 

 

“Okay alright-” Amelia backtracked, running a hand through her honey blonde waves and upsetting her gaudy barrettes, not seeming to notice. “Ferris wheels are completely chill, and I know you don’t like any of the rides here but trust me, this one is just your speed.”

 

“If you rock the carriage I  _ will  _ heft you out of it.” Leaving the rabbit she stepped right in front of Amelia, gently undoing the hair clips and righting them in place, smoothing a hand over her hair and lightly tangling her fingers in the curls at the bottom. 

 

Amelia reached up and slid both her hands around the hand in her hair, rubbing circles into Rose’s palm with both thumbs. “You wouldn’t.” She was grinning now, close enough that she could see that one freckle by Rose’s left eye that looked like a heart. She loved kissing it softly in the dark. 

 

“Oh, but I would.” Rose was smiling too, small and open and only for Amelia. The neon lights dancing all around them were getting stuck in Amelia’s hair, making her look like she was made of candy floss, almost coming close to reflecting the sweetness that Rose saw in her smile every single day. Reluctantly she stepped away, linking arms with Amelia and waving a hand, “Lead the way then, before I change my mind.” 

 

Amelia whooped in delight, dove in for a quick peck on the cheek which left a healthy blush blooming in its wake, and let them up to get in line. 

 

\--------------

 

It was like a whole other world, up there at the top. 

 

The sea was quiet around them, a hushed and rhythmic murmur that soothed her more than anything that wasn’t Amelia-shaped had in a long, long while. It was darker up there, too, the harsh colored lights of below seemingly trapped there, in their own realm, while up here there was nothing but the moonlight turning Amelia’s eyes the color of starlight on the sea. Their carriage was open-topped and swaying gently in the briny sea breeze, and everything in Rose’s mind that had seemed to be clunking and churning with anxiety was now at a dead stop, quiet, calm, stopped. 

 

She took a deep breath and found a smile at the exhale. 

 

They were sitting with their thighs pressed together, Amelia’s arm wrapped around Rose’s shoulders, exactly where it belonged. 

 

“So, how’s the view?”

 

Rose tucked her head in that spot where Amelia’s neck met her shoulder and sighed, content. “It’s wonderful. Just beautiful.” 

 

“You and it make a pair then,” Amelia said, and Rose snorted, wrapping her arms around Amelia’s.

 

“Seriously though, I uh, I want to thank you, Rose.”

 

At the no-nonsense tone in Amelia’s voice, she sat up. “What ever for?”

 

Amelia wasn’t looking at her, and instead had her eyes on the twinkling lights of the city some ways away, like fairy lights nestled in the hills. 

 

“I know you don’t like this kind of thing, and that you’d rather be anywhere else, but…” She was chewing on her lip again, brows pulled together. “I love this place and I love  _ you,  _ and just, thanks, for coming with me anyway.”

 

Rose stared openly at Amelia, gaze still far away, and gave a watery sniff, grinning fit to split her face. “What a horribly romantic thing to say. That’s it, over the side with you.” She pawed playfully at Amelia’s shoulder, giggling when she turned to finally look at her and had her own wide, dimpled grin from ear to ear. 

 

Amelia snorted, darting her hands out to tickle at Rose’s neck while their carriage swayed even more, though neither of them took notice. Amelia stopped her tickling, moving to cup Rose’s face sweetly in both hands, thumbs gently fluttering over pink cheeks. Rose slipped her hands between Amelia’s sides and the folds of her lumpy old war jacket, and it was the most natural thing in the world for them to lean in, at exactly the same moment, and meet their lips in a sweet and chaste kiss, pinned in a saccharine limbo between sea and sky. 

 

When they parted their foreheads fell together, a closeness as intimate as the kiss, and Rose murmured between the beats of her heart, “I love you too, darling.”

 

Amelia pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, really  _ look,  _ before choking out a boisterous laugh. 

 

“I know.”

 

Rose laughed as well, her head falling to rest on Amelia’s shoulder once more as the wheel began to turn, and they made their slow descent back to earth. 

  
If she heard  _ one word  _ about Han Solo before the night was out, that girl was in for a slap.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to watch play out in my head, and I hope I did the girls justice! Let me know what you think?


	5. Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of what it's like for Alfred and Arthur once the lights go out. gen rating, mild angst, not sexual at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this one is more based on the song and doesn't feature the actual song, which seems to be an even split with actually featuring it so watch out for it in the future I guess? Also this one is the shortest chapter yet, at only 717 words, but I felt it says all it needs to say and I'm happy with it. AND I'm finally caught up! :D I mean technically it's the 6th as it's after midnight but I haven't gone to sleep yet so it's still the 5th so!! There!!

Sometimes when the two of them laid down to sleep, Arthur didn’t want to be touched. He couldn’t bear the heat of Alfred’s skin against his, the weight of him at his back like a cliff face against an ocean. He could never grasp the right words as to why some nights Alfred’s arms around him felt like a cage, why an errant snore to his right would send his pulse thrumming in his veins, his whole being on high alert.

 

Alfred never said a word about it, never asked him why. Maybe he knew that he wouldn’t get an answer, or maybe he didn’t want to know. He would just scoot away, give him his space, murmur his affections and roll over, so he didn’t have to watch Arthur try not to look at him. Sometimes they would wake tangled together and the feeling of choking would have left him, sometime in the night, and sometimes he’d wake with Alfred on the other end of the bed, shoulders hunched inwards, content to sleep cold rather than try and take some blanket for himself and startle Arthur.

 

It was like dropping a plate, and not knowing if it was made of glass or plastic until it hit the ground and shattered. Both of them thought it best to avoid the cupboard until the strange fog of uncertainty had passed.

 

Eventually, it always did.

 

\--------------

 

Alfred talked in his sleep. It didn’t happen every night, but more often than he’d ever expected to Arthur was woken up to mutterings of why Mickey Mouse couldn’t come over for dinner, or how the lights in the subway station at City Hall made him feel like praying. Usually he’d trail off into mumbles and sniffles and go back to sleep like nothing happened, and Arthur would roll over and follow suit. But sometimes he’d talk for hours, dead asleep but his voice filling the room and seeping quietly into all the cracks.

 

On those nights Arthur would lay awake, listening to what secrets his teeth would let out while his brain was asleep, and he’d do everything he could to ingrain them into his memory. They weren’t always big secrets, in fact they usually were anything but, just little shining stones for Arthur to add to the mosaic of Alfred in his life, leaving him all alone to figure out where they fit best. Little things, like why his favorite color changed all the time, the most memorable time he’d ever been to Disneyland, how the smell of rain always made him both happy and sad.

 

Sometimes, on still and quiet nights when Alfred’s words won’t stay asleep, he’ll talk about Arthur. Sometimes he’s laughing, maybe thinking he won some sort of meaningless spat. Sometimes it’s on a whine, his head tilting back into the pillow as he pulls faces from some invisible pleasure going on behind closed eyelids. Sometimes it’s pleading, his voice coming out stuttered and broken between quick breaths. He begs him not to leave, that he’s sorry, sorry for _what_ Arthur would never know, that he can’t lose him. On nights like these Arthur aches to reach out, to hold him close and kiss the tears out of eyes that didn’t know they were crying, reassure him through touch and soothing whispers that he’s not going anywhere, that he’d done nothing wrong.

 

Sometimes all he says is his name, over and over, and Arthur isn’t sure which one is slowly breaking his heart.

 

\--------------

 

More often than any strange sadness creeping down the walls at night, Alfred and Arthur slept soundly, and in peace. Sometimes Alfred would be laid out like the Vitruvian Man, one leg thrown over Arthur while he laid tucked in his side. Sometimes Arthur would pillow his head on Alfred’s chest, watching his hand splayed out on tanned skin rising and falling, like a warm and breathing lullaby. Sometimes Alfred liked to feel Arthur’s arms around him, thin but firm and solid, protecting him from anything that may go bump in the night, or in his mind, when the lights go out.

  
They always sleep together, and whether they feel stitched together and inseparable or like there’s a world between them, their minds and feelings far away, they are never more than a hand’s, a heart’s reach away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one got a bit angsty, and it had no dialogue! Which is a little change of pace so far. Let me know what you think?


	6. Space Oddity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both dream of touching the stars, Alfred from above and Arthur from below, but some things aren't as easy to keep as wishes on stars or promises on pinkies. Astronaut!Alfred and Mission Control!Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I cheated again, this time by a lot. Space Oddity is a very special song to me, and it stirs a lot of feelings, but it was released in 1969, just two weeks before humankind set foot on the moon for the very first time. Seeing as it's Bowie, who means so much to me, I figure a can cheat a little if it's too include him in this as much as I'm able.
> 
> Now. That being said, this chapter is VERY angsty and VERY sad, and it really ran away with me. It's over 4k, and it doesn't have a happy ending, but I hope you'll read it anyway because I am immensely proud with what I came up with. 
> 
> I suggest listening to the song before you read, if you haven'y heard it before, to really get the vibe going. Heck even if you have heard it, it would probably increase the experience for you. 
> 
> WARNINGS: angst, crying, not a happy ending, and lots of incorrect space jargon

“What do you think it is, Artie?”

 

Alfred was spinning in lazy circles on a stool in the data lab, craning his neck to study the specs and charts and scale modules that were pinned and placed in jumble all around the room. Arthur was at his desk, which had doubled as his bed as well these past few weeks, the launch date looming closer and closer until it was on their doorstep, less than a full night’s sleep away.

 

He didn’t look up from the sheaf of mission plans he was diligently re-reading for the fourth or fifth time when he answered, distracted, “We don’t know what it is, Alfred, that’s why you have a job starting tomorrow, if I recall.”

 

“Ha ha, wise ass. I _mean,_ what do _you personally_ think it is? There’s still time to hop on the ‘alien’ pot, I’ve got fifty bucks riding on finding me some little green men.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes and still didn’t look up from the packet in his hands. He knew better than to get into a discussion about the existence of extraterrestrials with Alfred again; down that road lay only shouting and broken tea cups (which Alfred still owed him for, he continued to remind him). “Well, The pulses we’ve been picking up indicate that the anomaly has significant energetic presence, and the forces that the scouts have been surveying are off the charts, and whatever is shielding it from our visual scopes is unbelievably powerful, so it must be something _big-_ ”

 

Alfred stopped his spinning and gave Arthur a pointed look.

 

“Alright, if you’ll let me finish this, preparing for the _very important extremely expensive_ mission commencing tomorrow that you should be doing as well,” He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking to the smattering of plastic stars scattered all across his ceiling and smiling softly. “I think it’s something… astral. It feels old, to me, I can’t explain it. Whatever it is, I think that it’s been there for a very long time, and it’s been hiding. Waiting for someone to come and find it.”

 

Alfred couldn’t help the fondness unfolding a smile of his own, watching Arthur stare up into the big unknown and _hope_ like that. He stood and walked to stand behind Arthur’s chair, flicking the main light switch off as he went,  wrapping his arms gently around his shoulders and following Arthur’s gaze up to the dozens and dozens of stars now glowing in the dark above them.

 

“Waiting for _us_ to find it.” Alfred murmured, tucking a stray hair behind Arthur’s ear. “You think it’s new stars?”

 

Arthur closed his eyes, breathed deep. He reached up and circled both Alfred’s wrists in one hand.

 

“I think it’s new stars.”

 

\--------------

 

By oh-eight-hundred sharp Mission Control was like an ant colony, every single person milling about in an organized and well practiced chaos to set all the necessary details and plans in place. Arthur was speed-walking to his desk in the command room, the huge viewing screen that took up nearly the entire main wall already hooked up and displaying the empty cockpit of the Pandora 7.

 

“Wilhelm, status report.” He barked, eyes scanning a heavily annotated and color-coded schedule in his hands as a young man with round glasses and an earpiece joined his stride seamlessly.

 

“Fueling just finished, logs have been set to automatically send in a complete operational status report every 6 hours, all systems are fully functioning and have been triple-checked in a range of pressure levels, and trajectories have been reduced to .00001 degrees of tolerance.”

 

“Good yes, excellent.” He tucked the schedule under his arms and looked around the bustling room as if barely noticing the activity. “And Pilot Jones?”

 

Wilhelm raised a poised wrist and examined his watch. “Pilot Jones should be arriving at Mission Control at-”

 

“ _Right now_ o’clock!” Alfred bounded down the stairwell and slung an arm around each of their shoulders, practically shaking with excitement and beaming wide. “Did I miss the rocket?” He threw Wilhelm a wink.

 

“No darling, you’re right on time. Which means you actually _read_ the schedule I gave you, which means I am pleasantly surprised.” Arthur shrugged out of Alfred’s hold not unkindly, and moved to make sure he had all of the necessary flight plans and system codes on his desk and within reach. Too much could go wrong, and they were on thin ice with funding as it is. They _had_ to find something, _anything_ of note, to be able to keep doing this crazy dreaming that was space exploration.

 

Alfred didn’t seem phased, and he stood back to let a group of MT’s take his starting vitals. “Could recite that baby in my sleep, sweetheart.” He sent Arthur a toothy, half-lidded grin and snorted at his unimpressed ‘uh-huh.’

 

Shoo-ing the doctors away once they had everything they needed Alfred joined Arthur at his desk,his expression falling into something more serious at the sudden firm grip on his shoulder, fierce green eyes pinning him in place.

 

“Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” His voice was steady, but the hard edge in his eyes spoke of a fear that Alfred knew like the back of his hand. He wished he could smooth out those hard edges, and put stars in his eyes instead. Stars that matched the ones he saw charted across Arthur’s heart every time he looked at him, clear as day.

 

“This isn’t my first mission babe, I know how to squash those pre-space jitters by now.” His tone was gentle, and he tucked that fly-away hair behind Arthur’s ear that never liked to stay in place, smiling when Arthur leaned into the touch like he always did. Repetition was comforting, Arthur had taught him that. When he’d been shaking like a leave and struggling to keep down his breakfast the morning of his first mission, Arthur had taken him to a quiet corner and taken his glasses right off his face, folding each arm in and then back out, and again, in and back out. ‘There, see?’ He’d told him, grinning when Alfred chuckled at the irony that he’d been able to _see_ a lot clearer a second ago. ‘One, two, three, four. In, in, out, out. Always the same.’ He gave his glasses back to him, plucking a pen from his own breast pocket and clicking it slowly, methodically. ‘Click in, click out. No matter what you do, it will always do that. Whether there’s familiar soil beneath your feet or wild and whirling space all around you, it makes no difference to the pen, or your glasses.’ Gently he gave the pen to Alfred, wrapping his hand around his as they clicked it together. ‘Click in, click out. Always. When things slip out from under you, and you need a lifeline, focus on the pen, your glasses, knocking a tune into the wall.’ He rapped his knuckles on the wall three times, one-two-three. ‘Repetition can ground you in the moment. Use it, even when there’s no ground in sight to speak of.’

 

He’d calmed down after that, and when a hatch opened too early twenty minutes after exiting the atmosphere and he started to hyperventilate, he fumbled for the pen and clicked it furiously in rhythm, one-two one-two, until his breathing evened out. He’d heard the smile in Arthur’s voice through the speaker in his ear when he’d said, ‘That’s it, just like that. There’s a good lad.’

 

“I still get scared, you know. No matter how many times I watch you go up, I’m always afraid this will be the time you don’t come back down.” It was meant to be chastising, and he’s sure that’s how Arthur had crafted it to sound to any passing listeners, but Alfred knew that it was more than that.

 

“Good thing I’ll have you in my ear the whole time, making sure I don’t go doing anything stupid, right?” Alfred gripped Arthur’s chin ever so gently, laughing when Arthur scoffed and batted it away.

 

“I’m the only reason you manage to keep yourself in one piece up there, spaceman.” Arthur’s mouth twitched up at the edges.

 

Alfred beamed. “Damn straight. You’re my good luck charm, baby!”

 

Any further banter was cut off by an announcement through the speakers, a calm female voice announcing, “One hour to launch, prep all stations. One hour to launch.”

 

“That’s my cue, heh…” Alfred shuffled his feet. He knew how to handle the before and the after, but he always hated the in-between; he never could stomach goodbyes.

 

Luckily Arthur knew this, so when the voice stopped he cradled Alfred’s face in both hands, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone before rising to his tip-toes and kissing the breath out of him. Every drone they’d sent out had been fried by the immense EMP emanating from whatever the hell it was they’d been documenting for the past 18 months, and their only chance of actually _seeing_ this thing was with a manned vessel, with a highly skilled pilot who could account for obstacles as he encountered them and fly manually through the pulses. The mission would conclude when Alfred set foot back on Earth with logs of data in six months’ time.

 

It was their longest mission time yet, and they had to make this goodbye count.

 

When the kiss finally ended, both of them breathless and pretending not to be trembling, just a little, Arthur slid his hands down to Alfred’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace, trying to burn the heat and the shape of him into his palms.

 

Roughly he whispered into his ear, “Don’t do anything stupid.” When he pulled away they were both grinning, and if either of them were a little misty-eyed they didn’t mention it.

 

“Come on, me?” He was backing away, slowly but steadily under the draw of ticking of the clock.

 

“Go and bring me my stars, spaceman.” Watching him go, he _always_ had to watch him go…

 

Alfred pointed at him sharply, intently. “Now that, I can do.”

 

One more step, sliding doors swallowing him up, and he was gone. Off to get suited up, buckled in, and shot into space.

 

Arthur quickly dove back into the charts at his desk, a more than welcome distraction from the wetness in his eyes.

 

\--------------

 

Fifteen minutes to launch, and Alfred was strapped into the cockpit, the feed on the display screen in the command room was live and running. His helmet was in his lap and he was checking the controls on the switchboard in front of him, looking so serious and focused that Arthur indulged himself a moment’s staring. That boy was born to fly, and Arthur had never seen a more dedicated and capable pilot come through their base, truly. If anyone could navigate the astral anomaly that for too long had been just out if reach of understanding, it was Alfred F. Jones.

 

“Everything looking good in there Alfred?” Arthur was wearing his headset, as he would be for the entirety of his shifts while Alfred was out there. He’d made peace with the fact that he’d most likely end up sleeping with it on, not wanting to take it off for a second should something go wrong. Should Alfred need him.

 

“Well hey there sunshine! Hold on, I think there’s an English fly buzzing in my ear.” He gave a wink to the camera, and subsequently to the entire staff sitting at the ready in the command room.

 

“Careful dear, it may bite,” He smirked when he saw Alfred roll his eyes. While they would have eyes on him at all times so long as he was in the cockpit, Alfred couldn’t see them; they could only communicate reciprocally through audio connection, which would be live 24/7.

 

“Ooh, is that a promise?”

 

He was looking at the camera dead-on, knowing Arthur was watching. Arthur heard a groan from somewhere in the mass of analysts seated around him and bit back, “Cross my heart, Mr. Jones.” Alfred stuck his tongue out at the camera, and Arthur pressed on, “All systems functioning?”

 

“All systems functioning, active response engaged, status ready.” Alfred dropped their teasing, all business thank goodness, but still smiling lightly. Always smiling, that boy.

 

“Status ready, launch commencing on my count.” Arthur held up a hand, watch Alfred twist his helmet on and give him a thumbs up.

 

“Let’s do this!”

 

“Commencing countdown, engines on.” Arthur swept his arm down, the same female voice coming to life over the speakers, counting down from ten.

 

Nine, eight, seven…

 

You could hear a pin drop, everyone holding their breath as the roar of the engines spiked needles on their charts and Arthur’s adrenaline all at once.

 

Six, five, four…

 

The sound from the cockpit was deafening, and Alfred held tight to the armrests of his seat and howled in excitement.

 

Three…

 

A secondary display showed the rocket in full view, flames bursting to life and billowing, the ship like an upside down candle.

 

Two…

 

Arthur tucked his hair behind his ear, again again again, always the same. This he could control, and he hoped it would be enough.

 

One.

 

The rocket began to lift, flames belching, and all too quickly, Alfred was not of this world.

 

Wilhelm was at his side, when he’d moved to stand by Arthur’s desk or how long he’d been there, he couldn’t say. “Systems functioning normally, launch was successful.”

 

Arthur tucked his hair behind his ear once more and let out a deep breath he couldn’t remember holding.

 

\--------------

 

He’d only been 29 days out of the atmosphere before something went horribly, horribly wrong.

 

He was on the big screen, front and center, helmet and jacket off and complaining about something and tweaking his hair in a handheld mirror. Arthur was at his desk, as he should be, feet propped up as he rolled his eyes.

 

“I mean really, you’d think with no gravity pressing on your guts a guy could get a decent night’s sleep up here. Well lemme tell ya, you’d think _wrong,_ because this bed is just-” A loud bang cut him off, _too_ loud, too _irregular,_ from somewhere off camera, and Arthur’s feet slammed to the floor so hard he knocked his tea mug over, without so much as a glance.

 

“Alfred what was that?” He pressed a hand to his earpiece, looking across the room to Wilhelm who was furiously typing at his own desk, checking the ship’s readings. “Alfred talk to me, what’s happening?” Alfred wasn’t in the frame, he’d been shaken to the floor and back away into the ship at the impact of whatever had made that sound.

 

He didn’t reply right away, and after an agonizing minute Alfred responded, voice tight, “One of the thrusters burst, something must of put pressure on it, but I didn’t feel anything, I didn’t _see_ anything- did you guys pick it up?” He tumbled back into frame, his glasses sitting crooked on his face. It was as if Arthur could reach out and fix them for him, instead of thousands of miles away.

 

Wilhelm spoke up from his post, “Our sensors didn’t pick up any disturbance until it was actively occurring. That doesn’t make sense, something must’ve-”

 

Another bang, this one louder, closer, and Alfred jerked forward, his head nearly colliding with the camera. “ _Shit,_ Arthur what the fuck is going on?!”

 

Arthur scrambled to his keyboard and brought up the feeds. “Another thruster burst, only one functioning as normal. Can you do the repairs on board? What does the damage look like?” He tucked his hair behind his ear, and it stuck there with the sweat that was beginning to clam his skin. Alfred fumbled out of frame again, but responded from the other end of the ship.

 

“Unless you can get a welder up here this thing is blown to shit. Artie what the _fuck_ hit me?”

 

Arthur scrambled through every live stream of data he had access to, flipping through papers on his desk so wildly they went fluttering off the edge. “I, I don’t know, we didn’t pick anything up, I- I don’t know what’s going on.” Arthur bit his lip so hard he could taste blood. “It’s fine, Alfred, we can salvage this. Manual override and turn around, your remaining thruster should get you back home in about,” He typed some numbers into a schematic. “86 days. There are enough supplies to last you that long if you go by half-portions, it’ll all be fine, we’ve accounted for things like this to happen-”

 

“Wait, wait _shit,_ I think-” Something happened, something hit him, cut him off, and the camera shook violently before cutting to black, fizzing into static and bathing the room in a sickly, squirming light.

 

“No no no no _no,_ Alfred, Alfred talk to me what’s happening?!” He was standing now, hunched over his computer and slamming his fist down on the desk when it continued to display that nothing was near him, nothing had caused _two_ of his bloody engines to break down.

 

Silence, the screen nothing but harsh static.

 

“Alfred,” He choked on it as it left his throat. “Alfred, please…”

 

“Ar- -re you- -at is ha- -an’t hea-” It was Alfred, thank every god and patron saint that was listening, but it was choppy and garbled, incomprehensible.

 

Arthur could cry right then and there. But he had a job to do, damn it. He had to bring his boy home.

 

“Alfred, sweetheart, adjust your mic, it’s coming in pieces.” Alfred’s mic popped and fizzled with feedback, eventually squeaking through and mostly clear. The screen was still a mass of grey.

 

“Arthur? Please Christ Arthur, tell me you can hear me.”

 

“Yes! Yes, love, we can hear you. Are you injured? How’s that last thruster?” Silence. Alfred didn’t respond, and Arthur’s stomach sank.

 

“Artie? Arthur, are you there? Damn it, this thing looks pretty busted…”

 

Alfred couldn’t hear him. He must have tweaked the wires on his mic so he could come through, but he couldn’t hear him.

 

He was alone.

 

“I’m here Alfred, your connection is damaged, try re-wiring-”

 

“I’m assuming the mic got fried, I know you would be popping a blood vessel right about now if I could hear you.” He tried to chuckle, but it sounded hollow to Arthur’s ears. It sounded afraid. “Camera’s toast too, lens all but cracked in half. Told you we should’ve gone with Sony.” He was cutting him off like he couldn’t hear a thing, and it made Arthur sick to his stomach.

 

“Alfred if you can hear me we need you to tell us what’s happening, we need a damage report. Bloody scans are saying there’s an error in the reporting software, whatever hit you the machines can’t make sense of it.” Arthur was starting to panic. Their programs and software had been tested and reworked for nearly two years, and not even halfway through the mission they’re useless. Arthur was going to shove his size 8’s up whoever’s ass had let this slip by. But that wasn’t important right now. What mattered was getting him home.

 

“The two thrusters were gone, and I was going through the rations in my head and I saw the view out my window kind of- shake, I guess. I don’t know what the hell it was, but before I could even _think,_ something hit.” He was rummaging around, moving debris and shuffling around, Arthur could tell he was thinking. “I didn’t _see_ anything, it was like a wave I couldn’t see just, slammed into me.”

 

Arthur fell into his seat, numb with shock.

 

It didn’t make any sense, it wasn’t logical. _Nothing_ that science has ever recorded should’ve been able to come at him like that and bypass all their scans. He suddenly remembered Alfred’s bet on what they would find out there and he had to fight to keep his breakfast down. He looked around the room, the faces of his team all pinched in worry and disbelief, looking desperately on each of their monitors for something, _anything,_ that would help.

 

Alfred spoke again, voice wavering a little. “Arthur, Artie, the- the last thruster just went out.”

 

Arthur blinked.

 

No.

 

He reached to tuck his hair behind his ear but it wasn’t sticking up. He was without his lifeline, and Alfred was hurtling through space with no way to turn around, no way to come _back-_

 

Arthur choked on a sob, tears pouring down his face and startling him into motion. He bolted from his seat, ran down the stairs to the pulpit right in front of the screen, and just… Sat down. He sat down on the floor, the screen a towering wall of static in front of him, trying to wrap himself up in Alfred’s voice.

 

“It uh, it just died, no bangs or booms. I tried manually firing up the backup generators, but the circuits are fried. Like, literally, they were melted together like that box of crayons I left in your car that time, do you remember?”

 

Arthur choked again, heaving in a breath. “Of course I remember, ruined my new upholstery you brat.” There was nothing but affection in his tone, and a warble to his voice that only grief could summon.

 

Alfred laughed, and Arthur cried harder at the sound. “You said, you said ‘if I wanted a rainbow on my ass I’d buy those rubbish pants from the naughty rack at Tescos’,” He did an awful imitation of Arthur’s accent, and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. “You had to explain to me what Tescos was, you were _so_ fed up…”

 

He didn’t say anything for a while, and Arthur had never felt more hopeless in his life.

 

“So uh, I don’t think I’m coming back from this, am I…” His voice sounded strangely resigned, like he was saying what was happening without actually taking in the reality of it.

 

Arthur stood, running up to put his hands flat against the screen as if it would bring him closer, somehow. “No! No, don’t you say that, you’ll figure something out!” He was yelling now, his voice getting hoarser by the minute as the sobs continued to wrack his body. “You’re _Alfred F. Jones!_ The best pilot in America, remember? You can fix this, Alfred, I know you can-”

 

“Without all the engine noises, it’s actually kinda nice. If you squint past the never coming home thing, I guess.” He still sounded like it hadn’t quite sunk in yet, he sounded almost… calm. Maybe he knew that if he fell apart, and Arthur had to hear him do it, it would destroy him, rip him atom from atom. He was right, he was absolutely right, and it was just like him to put his own fracturing aside to ease someone else’s. Arthur couldn’t remember a time he wanted to hold Alfred close to him more fiercely.

 

He knew without a doubt that it would only get worse.

 

“I can just barely see the Earth from here,” Alfred said, so soft and gentle it threatened to smash Arthur into pieces. People always say how beautiful the color of it is, out here. I never really understood the hype, though. It’s beautiful, sure, breathtaking, absolutely. Blue like I’ve never seen blue before.” Arthur could _hear_ the wistful smile in his voice, could picture it as clear as the stars if he closed his eyes.

 

“But the green? Every time I look out at that impossible green, so full of life, all I can do is miss you. Your eyes are even  _greener,_ hand to god.”

 

Arthur felt like he was falling to pieces, every layer of himself thundering apart.

 

“You horrible sap,” Arthur was sobbing, fists pressed to his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the screen and see where Alfred _used_ to be.

 

Alfred laughed, and it sounded more genuine. “You’d have my ass if I ever said that out loud. Not even sure you can hear me now…”

 

“Someone ought to hear it, if this is curtains, huh?”

 

“Don’t say that! Alfred _please,_ you have to come back, you have to come _home-”_

 

_You have to come back to me._

 

“Wait, I think- Arthur-!” Alfred’s voice was urgent, much more animated, and Arthur looked up at that awful white screen, eyes wide.

 

“Alfred what is it? What’s happening? Oh you can’t hear me anyway, Alfred _talk_ to me! I-!”

 

The fight died in his throat, as a soft and eerie crooning warbled through the mic, slow and haunting and unlike anything he’d ever heard in his life, or would ever hear again.

 

“Artie… You were right.”

 

His breath caught in his throat. It was just him and Alfred, every other soul in the room forgotten and silent as the grave.

 

“There are stars here, stars that _shouldn’t be here.”_ He sounded awestruck, and he laughed, loud and bright and when he spoke next Arthur could hear the tears choking his throat at last. “They were hiding, Arthur. Can you hear this? They- they’re singing, somehow, god only knows but-” He took in a shaky breath.

 

“They were waiting for us. Your stars are here, waiting.”

 

The mic let out a deafening crackle after that, popping and whining until Alfred was trying to talk again. Arthur was still crying, silently now, and he’d give anything, everything in his tiny pathetic life on this planet to just _save him._

 

He didn’t want his mysterious stars, he wanted Alfred, safe and whole and _home._

 

Alfred’s voice crackled through, serene and sincere and the last anyone on Earth would ever hear from Alfred F. Jones.

  
“It’s beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, it took a lot out of me too. I nearly cried writing this damn thing, but I'm very very pleased with it. I know I did the cardinal sin and didn't give them a happy ending, but please let me know what you thought, I'm really eager to see if you guys liked this one.


	7. Call Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scattered phone conversations, scattered times, same boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am aware that I'll be playing catch-up for quite a while until this is done, but I just hope you can bear with me as I chug along. I WILL finish these, all thirty of them, they just might not all happen in April. 
> 
> WARNING: A couple of F-bombs and a reference to fisting

8:24 pm

Incoming Call… Arthur Kirkland

 

“Hey Artie, what’s up? Kinda busy here- Ivan what the  _ fuck-” _

 

_ “If by ‘busy’ you mean ‘playing your xcube’ or whatever it is, I  _ will  _ reach through the phone line and smack you.” _

 

“Oh my god, Arthur, it’s an xbox. Cube is literally more difficult to remember than box. Am I having a stroke are are you  _ really  _ that old?”

 

_ “Oh you’ll wish you had a stroke by the time I’m done with you-! Ahem. I don’t care what your toy is called, Alfred, I just can’t get my printer to start up and I think you may have set it up wrong.” _

 

“No, yep, you’re just that old. Kiku, guess who needs help with his ‘new-fangled printing device’ at nearly nine at night.”

 

_ “Right then, go to hell and have a wonderful evening virtually fisting each other. Goodbye-” _

 

“Artie wait, come on, okay. What’s wrong with it exactly?”

 

_ “I’ve connected it to my laptop and hit ‘print’ but nothing happens. Something is blinking at me but I’m not sure what it wants.” _

 

“Is there a display window of any kind? Do you have enough ink? Ah- Ivan you  _ dick-” _

 

_ “I just replaced the ink two weeks ago and I can’t seem to pacify it- Look I’ll figure it out, don’t pause your precious game.” _

 

“Okay,  _ alright.  _ You don’t have to guilt-trip me, just  _ ask _ me to come over.”

 

_ “Be here in ten, key’s under the mat in the usual spot.” _

 

“Just what I thought.”

  
  


\--------------

  
  


3:17 pm

Incoming Call… Alfred Jones

 

“Alfred, dearest, what time is it?”

 

_ “Sometime between two and five.” _

 

“And what is it that I do every day specifically between the hours of two and five o’clock?”

 

_ “Read really old stuffy books in your old stuffy living room wearing an old stuffy sweater, probably.” _

 

“Reading, yes, key word there Alfred. How should I put this in a way you’ll understand it- It’s my quiet time, understand?”

 

_ “That was so funny I forgot to laugh. Also, bite me.”  _

 

“What do you want, Alfred?”

 

_ “Do I need a reason to call you? Why can’t I just be calling to say ‘hey, what’s crack-a-lackin’?’” _

 

“You most definitely need a reason when you’re coming between myself and Chaucer. And you can try calling to ask me that but I doubt I’ll have an answer to that particular set of syllables.”

 

_ “You are  _ so  _ boring, you know that?”  _

 

“You’re still here, I must be doing something right. Or wrong, depending on one’s vantage point in this conversation…”

 

_ “To reiterate, bite me. I was walking down 3rd and passed that tea house you like, was wondering if you wanted me to pick up some of those lemon drop biscuits you like.” _

 

“Ooh, those do sound divine… Somehow I think Chaucer would forgive an interruption of the lemon drop variety.”

 

_ “ _ So _ boring…” _

 

“I love you too, darling. Do hurry back.”

  
  


\--------------

  
  


2:41 am

Incoming Call… Arthur Kirkland

 

“Artie? Jesus, do you know what time it is?”

 

_ “Alfred! Alllllfred, I’d like to- to utilise your skills, for a moment.” _

 

“Are you  _ drunk?”  _

 

_ “Nonsense! Nonsense, ‘ve only had a fifth of brandy and a chardonnay, I could jog to Wales in a wink.” _

 

“....riiiight. And uh, what skills of mine do you require at three in the fuckin’ morning?”

 

_ “Would you name for me please, the- the fifty-second poke-whatsit, the colorful cartoon creatures, bugger, you know-” _

 

“It’s Meowth, obviously, but are you  _ seriously  _ waking me up at  _ three in the morning  _ to ask me about  _ pokemon?”  _

 

_ “Ha! Pay up, Francis, I  _ told  _ you he knew it! That’s right, pay up frog, ha HA!” _

 

“Unbelievable.”

 

_ “You are a peach, Alfred. A Peach!” _

 

“Do you need a ride home?”

 

_ “No no, the frog’s called a cab, it’s all squared-fancy.” _

 

“Right, I’m going back to bed now, you massive nerd.”

 

_ “Sweet dreams, darling~!” _

  
  


\--------------

  
  


10:18 am

Incoming Call… Alfred Jones

 

“Hey, love.”

 

_ “Hey.” _

 

“Did you get some flowers?”

 

_ “Morning Glories, her favorite.” _

 

“What color?”

 

_ “Blue. She like the blue ones best. ‘Specially when it rained.” _

 

“Are you there yet?”

 

_ “Walking. Tried listening to music like you suggested, but it all sounded like static, if that makes sense..” _

 

“Perfect sense sweetheart.”

 

_ “You sure you’ll be here tonight?” _

 

“My plane lands at five, and I’m taking a cab straight to wherever you are.”

 

_ “Bags and all?” _

 

“Bags and all. Won’t we look a pair, ey?”

 

_ “Pair a’ screwballs…” _

 

“Your mother would have loved the flowers, Alfred.”

 

_ “Yeah, she always was a dirty hippie, heh…” _

 

“And I’m sure I would’ve loved her. And I’m also sure that she loved  _ you,  _ and she’ll never stop. Every time you see a tie-dyed shirt or hear Peter Paul and Mary on the radio, that’s her telling you to smile, kid.”

 

_ “It- I really…” _

 

“Shh, it’s okay darling. Breath, come on now.”

 

_ “It’s really good to hear your voice, Arthur.” _

 

“And yours, Alfred.”

 

_ “...love you.” _

  
“I love you too. See you soon, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue, this one, very different from what I normally do. I had to stop myself writing tone and descriptors! The pokemon thing is inspired by my best friend Matt, who has an entire pokedex in his head, hand to god.
> 
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
